


Lodestar

by aronnaxs



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: Gen, M/M, Outer Space, Space AU, we’re going to space lads!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26224417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronnaxs/pseuds/aronnaxs
Summary: 2150. Earth has nearly been drained of its resources. In the depths of space, the trawler Pequod is on the hunt for unlicensed and rogue oil-ships. Yet their captain has a vengeful quest against a drifting derelict which nearly cost him his life. [Moby-Dick space AU]
Relationships: (IMPLIED), Captain Ahab/Starbuck (Moby Dick), Ishmael/Queequeg (Moby Dick)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Lodestar

**Author's Note:**

> ....I’ve been re-reading Moby Dick again, and thought I’d combine my all-consuming love for that book with my all-consuming love for sci fi.
> 
> this is what happened

“Lieutenant Starbuck! Larboard - blows!”

From the mast-head oculus, Ishmael’s voice echoed through the channels and into first lieutenant Starbuck’s headset. He was on his feet in a second, hurrying across the crowded cockpit and to the primary console deck. Retrieving the keycard from around his neck and jamming it into its slot, he brought up the security controls of the Pequod. With a manipulation of codes known only to the officers, the cloaking technology for the massive oil hauler dropped away, like pulling a curtain from a magic trick. 

In a second, they were vulnerable to external scans. But they were also connected to a network that illuminated the surrounding gulf.

And there was a point flashing, just as Ishmael said, off the larboard bow.

“Copy that,” he said, chest tightening as he brought up a cross-section of the target. While the AI formulated its visual scan, he prayed it was not what he feared. Every cry of “blows!”, each sighting of thrusters, was a dangerous line - any one of those could have been that hulk, still lurking out there.

This time, it was not. He breathed out and skimmed through the read-out. “It’s a merchant vessel, private one, out of the Vineyard. One thousand barrels. Unlicensed.”

The boarders were already getting to their feet. Thirty drops and counting, and that was only on this expedition. The skies were getting more and more crowded, as the premiums soared up and up and up. Earth was dying, so ships took their chances where they could. “Lower away!” Starbuck called now, and repeated the command down the intercom. 

The corridors of the Pequod echoed with the sound of men hurrying to their stations. Jackets, emblazoned with the token of the mothership and their drop-ship designation, were tugged on; pulse weapons were grabbed from the armoury; lucky charms were tied around necks and wrists. But, no matter the religion, no matter the assigned team, all crew members smacked their palms against the gold coin nailed to the entrance of the docking bay - a river of men cheering and prostrating to that dreadful idol.

Starbuck caught the eyes of second and third lieutenants Stubb and Flask as he counted off his team, streaming into the jolly-boat Providence. Stubb grinned and saluted him. “Not him, is it, Mr. Starbuck?” he drawled.

“Not him, Mr. Stubb.”

His crew were already in place when he ducked into the vessel, strapped into their seats, helmets pulled on tight. He took one last look at the docking bay, as if the captain had suddenly appeared to watch them leave. He never did anymore, secluding himself aft. He would only emerge when those white flanks appeared amongst the stars again.

Starbuck pulled shut the hatch and took his place at the helm. His chief harpooner, Queequeg, sat aside him, his sleeves pulled up to reveal the labyrinth of tattoos over his skin. He was as calm as if they were about to cruise along a standard recon. Starbuck liked having him up front.

“Captain’s Daughter and King-Post, do you read me?”

“Aye, sir.” Lieutenant Stubb in the Captain’s Daughter.

“Sir.” Lieutenant Flask in King-Post.

“On my mark. Docking hatch opening in five, four, three, two, one...”

The slats peeled back below them, leaving the ship suspended on its platform. “Withdrawing struts,” Starbuck narrated, and listened to the grind of metal. Behind him, the crew crossed their arms over their chests, clutching their straps. Starbuck took a breath. Looked at the crucifix hanging from the front shield. “Brace for drop. In three, two, one -“

His stomach hit his rib-cage as the Providence was severed from the mother-ship. The top-side thrusters jettisoned them into the gulf with a violent lurch. Starbuck gritted his teeth and clutched the console deck. Even as his eyes threatened to blur, he stared at the read-outs streaming across the main computer screen - the metre distance from the Pequod rose and rose. It seemed to be a fight with nature; testing how close they could get to their bodily limits. He knew many men who had bailed out of this profession because of just this. 

Finally - “disengage thrusters! Stabilisers - on!”

The drop-ship jerked to a halt. Artificial gravity received them again. Starbuck breathed a sigh of relief as the vessel came back under his control. Far to port, he could make out the Captain’s Daughter, soaring as gracefully as a hulk of discoloured metal could. And there, just behind, the King-Post. All were out safely.

“Everyone alright?” he called back over his shoulder. 

“Aye, sir!” came the unsure cry. 

Once out of the Pequod, no hierarchy dictated who should approach the target ship first. Lieutenant Stubb liked to make a game of it, pushing his girl as close to the line as he could - always spending his shifts fixing this or that malfunction after going too far. Starbuck let him; he, and his chief harpooner, Tashtego, had racked up millions of barrels to their name during their careers. But that morning, Starbuck took point, the Providence streaming neatly through the blackness. The kilometre distance to their target quickly decreased. No doubt she knew they were there now. The huge hulk of the Pequod was hard to miss.

Queequeg brought up a cross-section of her as they approached. It span above the console deck in green and blue holographic lines. She looked familiar. “Do we have an ID on her yet, sir?” eager young Ishmael asked from behind them.

“It’s the Ambergris,” Starbuck said. “She was captained by a Coffin, but she was registered stolen six months ago. The committee took her license away but couldn’t repay the captain his losses.”

“She’ll be a fighter then,” Queequeg commented. 

“Maybe so.”

Unlicensed ships had the most to lose - not only were they unlawful vessels, but, just as this one was, they were often stolen, and crewed by men and women desperate for income. The oil they kidnapped, or mined during their seizure of the ship, could be heavily fought for. And all this illegally-sourced oil poured like torrents into black market dealings, a pit of violence and corruption. No one won, then. 

Starbuck had no cause to moralise, not now. This was the profession he had signed up for.

They were drawing closer. The shape of the Ambergris slowly began to fill the front windows, matching her hologram. Her thrusters, which Ishmael had spied from the oculus, gaped and roared at them - but they would not be enough to escape the lithe and quick Providence. She was geared for long bouts of speed and manoeuvrability, nothing the mammoth oil-trawler could match. Starbuck watched her carefully, checking for any sudden motions, any sign she had targeted them back - and as he did, the crew began to sing, as they always did.

“Cheer up me lads, may your hearts never fail, for the bonny ship the Diamond, goes a-fishing for the whale, cheer up me lads -“

Starbuck checked the positions of the other drop-ships. They were near enough now. 

The Providence passed beneath the flukes of the Ambergris - huge stabilisers that supported the bulbous refinery down its ribbed back. The Ambergris had desperately upped its velocity - Starbuck could almost imagine the great ship complaining at the pressure. He scanned the heaving, grey flank, and saw what he was searching for. “Queequeg - if you will,” he commanded.

The harpooner, already in his assigned position, grabbed the sturdy levers with two large hands. He had the best eye of any Starbuck had ever worked with, aside from perhaps the captain. It had been a fortuitous commission; Queequeg had travelled with many other ships before the Pequod, but one meeting with young Ishmael at the Bedford Station had convinced them to sign up together. Four years of deep-space missions had passed since then, and they were married now. 

It was not only Ishmael who watched him as he worked. For any other harpooner, reticule targets would help guide their weapons’ trajectory. Queequeg chose not to have them obscuring his vision. He seemed to become one with the ship and her controls. His strong arms pulled back the levers, the coils of reinforced metal going taut along the Providence’s flanks. 

Launch.

Twin streams jetted out. The metallic ropes were forced through the vacuum, gaining momentum. With a single jolt, they attached simultaneously to the Ambergris. Starbuck steadied himself against the console. A cheer rippled through the cockpit. “Contact, sir!” Queequeg called.

“Hold tight. She’s sounding.”

Now the rope was attached, there was no wrenching it from the Ambergris’ airlock. The target ship’s only chance was to take the Providence on a wild chase - still called a Nantucket sleighride, even after all these years. Her thrusters adjusted, and she began to drop, bow dipping in a slow, deep obeisance. Gouts of energy poured from her engines, and her velocity ticked up. Bound tightly, the Providence followed her, arcing, yawing. The Ambergris would try to smash her against her hull.

Starbuck’s stomach lifted again. He grasped the controls in a death-grip. The slightest adjustment could be the difference between life and death. 

The darkness raced about them as the Ambergris tried in vain to shake them off. She plunged down, and then up again, wearing out her ailerons. Starbuck saw the massive flukes rise above them, as if ready to slam down and stove in their boat. He yanked the helm to starboard, felt the whole cockpit rise and roll right. A groan rippled through the crew. The lucky charms and mementos tumbled off the front of the deck, clattering amongst the wires. 

The Providence was not weighty enough to shift the Ambergris, but she had a clever ploy. A dirty trick, but this was a dirty business. 

Their violent jerk threatened to damage the Ambergris’ airlock. Starbuck laid on more pressure until warning alarms would surely be blaring through the tanker. They would not suffocate; he knew exactly how much to manipulate the lock - enough to frighten the systems, not enough to blow open the hull. Usually, it panicked the crew just the right amount. 

“Sir, there’s a comms outreach,” Queequeg suddenly said. Starbuck nodded. Perhaps there would be no need for fighting. 

“Patch them through.”

The pirate captain of the Ambergris appeared on the overhead screen. He was panting and pale, surrounded by an almost empty cockpit. A few crew members were stricken in their seats, some already having tugged half of their EVA suits on in case of a breach. “Who is this?” he asked in a rasp.

“I am Lieutenant Starbuck of the Pequod, out of Nantucket Station. We have a warrant under the Peleg-Bildad corporation to requisition your oil stock. You are piloting a stolen, unlicensed ship.”

The captain opened his mouth, closed it again. A shudder passed through him. Defeated, he nodded. “I did it for -“

“You’ll have a chance to speak. We shall be entering the Ambergris. Hold your position. Any resistance shall be suppressed.”

The docking was simple now. On the port side, Stubb and Flask had also attached. Starbuck kept his mind on the task at hand, although the image of that traumatised captain and his skeleton crew kept creeping in. What people would do because they felt they had no choice... Fate was a cruel master, and sometimes a man could do nothing to stand against it.

He went through the motions as he had done a hundred times before. “Boarders away!” aroused a buoyant cry from the crew. He watched them fetch their weapons, and waited for the inevitable message from the Pequod.

When it came, as always, he felt his chest tighten. 

“Have you bound them, Mr. Starbuck?” asked the Pequod’s captain. The gulf of space which stretched between them could not lessen the feeling of his eyes raking down Starbuck’s spine, nor disguise that deep voice. He swallowed.

“Yes, sir, we have them.”

“Bring their captain aboard.”

“Yes, sir.”

One thousand captured barrels, and still it was not enough for their captain. The only thing good enough for him still lurked out there - somewhere in the void; unseen but always felt, always waiting.


End file.
